Doctor Who: The Legends of Ashildr

by Justin Richards

  What if… what if it freezes her, not just as a child, but as a sick child? What if it keeps her in this foul state for ever? Could one imagine a worse torture?

  My hand flies to my mouth in horror. I stare at the tile. I was in good health when he did what he did to me.

  Oh, for all the times I have been tried as a witch: if I only could, truly, curse the man who did this to me, if I could pull his blood out across the stars, slowly, drop by drop whilst he screamed the heavens apart, then I would.

  I let the tile fall slowly back against my skin and heave a great sigh.

  ‘Maman?’ says Essie, her voice trembling.

  I sit on the damp straw bed, pick up the baby, who quietens immediately and nuzzles into my neck, the way his head is designed to fit so perfectly there. And I gather Johann in one crook of my elbow, and Essie just about manages, pale and weary as she is, to lie on the other.

  ‘What’s happening?’ says Essie, as weak as if she is waking from a dream.

  ‘You are going…’ I say. ‘On a journey. Like on the boat. But where you are going there will be no sickness and no pain.’

  ‘Will you be with us, Maman?’ says Johann, croaking. His little hands are pinned tightly around my waist.

  I take the deepest of breaths. ‘Listen to me. I will be with you every single second. My arms will be around you and I will be loving you and you will never ever think for a second of your life that you were not utterly beloved, every single bit of you, everything you ever were from the moment I knew you were coming; everything you ever did, everything you ever were or could ever be, was wonderful and perfect in my eyes. You were so beloved, and you made me so very, very happy. The happiest I have ever been in my whole life, and the happiest I will ever be, and I am so very, very proud of you and I am always here for you, every single second.’

  His little face relaxes and he smiles. ‘Was I good?’

  ‘You were so very much better than good.’

  ‘I am so tired, Maman.’

  ‘Sleep a while,’ I say.

  The baby is already quiet. Oh, he is so very quiet. Essie’s head is heavy on my arm. Her dark soft hair lies across my skin.

  ‘Sweet Maman, sing,’ she says, her eyelashes fluttering across her downy cheek, every freckle on it something I have made, worshipped, adored; every single beat of her, and I should, I will not regret a single moment, and the infinity of howling misery that blows the carved wooden door to eternal winter open in front of me, well, shall we say that it was worth it?

  ‘Rough blows the North Wind, cruel blows the East’

  This tiny gap of light you opened for me, you three, in my infinity of dark; that tiniest moment of sunshine: shall we say then that the thousand thousand days of misery are worth the three cooling heads at my breast, shall we?

  ‘Heavy blows the South Wind, we all fall beneath…’

  Of course, of course we shall… it was worth it and I will pay for it willingly, every second: oh my loves, oh my loves, how you were loved how I loved.

  AUGUST 24TH

  AUGUST 25TH

  AUGUST 26TH

  AUGUST 27TH

  I knotted Essie’s plaited hair tight around my wrist as my warrior’s totem and set out just after dawn. There was panic in the city now, you could feel it; the disease spreading everywhere. It was a beautiful morning too.

  They were burying the corpses beyond the city walls. I looked in pity at the men who took this work; who provided some accompaniment, at least, at the end, when the finest and the great and rich ladies and gentlemen had fled in short order. I did not think they would escape it. Rich and poor, we all end the same, for I have been both. Except of course I do not end. But the having of children. That has ended.

  And here and there I saw shapes that startled me: the belief that the bird-men were indeed physicians has stayed strong, for those who do care, those who have agreed to help tend the sick; they now wear the great beaked masks, to show what they do.

  I passed one on his way through the fields, who nodded.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ I said, for I was trying out myself anew, and feel the need now to only ever be light.

  He shrugged.

  ‘My money is on the rat fleas,’ I said, as cheerily as I could. And I heard his mask move, and I felt his eyes on me as I carried on down the road; but I did not turn my head, for looking back is over for me now: and also, I had no wish to see his face.

  THE GHOSTS OF BRANSCOMBE WOOD

  Justin Richards

  I have had so many names I don’t remember them all. I have been Ash and I have been Alys. I have been Lady Sherade and Lady Electra, and even a queen. Once, so long ago I can barely recall it, I was Ashildr. But now I have given up trying to remember what I am called. I remember only who I am. I am Me. That is the only name I need.

  The minutes, the hours, the days come and go. The years pass and so – all too soon – do the centuries. I remember when it was 1400. I remember thinking how long it had been since I left my home village. And now, all too soon, 1600 has come and gone…

  The air has a smell, almost a taste, imbued by the recent rain. Once I would have marvelled at it, and let it pervade my senses. Now I find it as stale and unremarkable as everything else in this slow-changing world. Everything changes, except me. Everything grows old and passes away, crumbles to dust, except me. Or rather, Me.

  I am travelling again. But this time, I am looking for somewhere to settle, to make my home. For how long, I know not. Years perhaps. Decades. Centuries. I have wealth enough to purchase a plot of land and a fine house. It is just a question of finding the right place. My possessions and wealth – and all my other journals (so many of them) I have left in the safe keeping of someone I know in London. I would call him a friend, but all too soon he will be gone like everyone else. I do not make friends now, because I cannot bear to lose them. I have so much, but I have lost so much more.

  I had not travelled far from London. I think I want to stay close to the city, although I no longer wish to live within its confines. My rather rudimentary map called the area Branscombe.

  The road narrowed to a track and this disappeared into a wood. Another track led off around the trees. I pulled on the reins to slow my horse, and consulted the map again. The route around the wood was far longer than the distance through it, and there appeared to be nothing along the way that made the longer path interesting. So I folded the map and put it away, then urged the horse forward again, towards the trees.

  Before long, we were swallowed up by the wood. Sunlight scattered across the ground where it could break through the canopy of leaves. The horse had slowed to a walk, but I was in no hurry. Other, narrower paths split off but I kept to the main track as it led me deeper into the shadows.

  I had been travelling for perhaps an hour when I saw the knight.

  He stood at a junction where another narrow path led off from the track I was following. What light made it through the green canopy above us was reflected off his polished breastplate as he stood silent and impassive and utterly incongruous. As I approached, he raised a gauntleted hand to stop me.

  I could see now that his armour was of an old design. In fact, it looked identical to a suit of armour I had seen before. But that was in another country and long ago. For a moment, in my mind’s eye I imagined I saw the knight who wore that armour charging towards me again. He was mounted on a snow-white horse, galloping towards our ranks on the field of Agincourt.

  But that knight was long gone. He would have died of old age well over a century ago, if my arrow hadn’t struck the weak point below his helmet, penetrated his armour, and killed him in an instant. I forget how many I killed that day, but as I saw the figure standing before me, I remembered the knight on his white charger…

  ‘What do you want, sir knight?’ I called out as my horse approached.

  ‘You must take another path,’ he replied. His voice was muffled by his helmet, the visor down. Even so, I could hear his Fr
ench accent.

  ‘This is the most direct route,’ I told him. ‘This path takes me through the wood to the village of Branscombe.’ I had half a mind to take out the map and show him.

  But at my words, the knight drew his sword. It was obvious he did not intend to move, and my bow and arrows were long gone.

  ‘This path leads to death,’ the knight said. ‘I tell you again – take another.’

  For several moments we faced each other. I looked down at him from my horse, and contemplated simply riding on and letting him try to stop me. From his stance, I had no doubt that he would try. And if he was telling the truth and some danger did indeed lurk ahead, then he was right to warn me away.

  So, finally, I pulled on the reins, and directed the horse onto the narrower path.

  ‘You have chosen well,’ the knight called after me.

  I did not reply, but raised my hand in acknowledgement. When I did look back, as the path turned and headed deeper into the wood, the knight was gone.

  It was difficult to know how long I was in the wood. Time seemed to stand still in the eerie, shadowy domain. I measured it out by the steps of the horse. Its hooves on the path supplied a drumbeat accompaniment to the beating of my heart and the pulse of my breathing. But finally, the trees thinned and the sunlight brightened. The patches of shadow grew smaller as the puddles of light enlarged and I emerged into daylight.

  My eyes had adjusted gradually to the brightness as the wood petered out. I found myself on a gently sloping hillside leading down into a wide valley. In the distance I could see a river and on its banks a small settlement made up of several dozen houses. Smoke rose from what I guessed was a blacksmith’s.

  As I approached the village I saw the people. At first there were just a few. But gradually the numbers grew as villagers came out into the streets and stared up at me. They watched as my horse made its way down the path towards them – young and old, men and women. It was as if they’d never seen a woman riding a horse before.

  But, as I discovered when I reached the village and they cautiously welcomed me, it was not who I was that intrigued them. It was where I had come from.

  A young lad took my horse to find it water and a pasture or stable. I forget his name or rather, to be honest, I made no effort to remember it. Perhaps he never told me, although he asked me the name of the horse. I had to admit it didn’t have a name. He seemed surprised at this. But I know from experience that if I name something then I miss it all the more when it is gone.

  While my horse was tended to, I was invited into the house of the man I assumed was in charge of the village. Perhaps they had a Head Man, or perhaps he was simply the most respected citizen. He was middle-aged, his face craggy and his hair greying and thinning. His name I do recall – it was Edward. He offered me ale, apologising that there was nothing more refined for a lady of my obvious standing. But I am as happy to drink ale as I am the finest wine.

  His wife, Maria, brought two tankards. She had weathered better than her husband and I could still see how pretty she must once have been. ‘You came from the wood,’ Edward said, almost as soon as we had sat down.

  ‘I came through the wood,’ I corrected him. ‘My journey started long before that.’ I did not tell him how many centuries before…

  Edward nodded. ‘Of course. Forgive our surprise, but no one from the village ever ventures into the wood. Or very rarely.’

  ‘Really?’ I told him I found this hard to believe, especially as the path through the wood afforded the shortest distance to the nearest town.

  ‘You’re right. It is a great inconvenience to have to go round the wood to get to the market rather than cutting through it.’

  ‘So why do you not go through the wood?’ I asked.

  ‘You had no trouble on your journey?’ He took a swig of ale. ‘You saw… nothing unusual?’

  I thought of my brief encounter with the knight. But I decided not to mention that. At least, not until I discovered what he was talking about. So I shook my head. ‘It was a pleasant ride.’

  He frowned. ‘Then you were very lucky, my lady.’ He took another drink, as if considering what to say. ‘The woods,’ he told me at last, ‘are haunted.’ He smiled apologetically, as if to say, ‘I know it sounds incredible, but it really is not my fault.’

  Being more used to incredible things than he was, I merely nodded and smiled. ‘Haunted in what way?’ I asked.

  ‘People who venture into the woods see things. People. Dead people they know, or used to know. Other things too. Strange lights, eerie sounds…’ He paused to drain his tankard and signalled to his wife for her to refill it. Even in the dim light within the house I could see he had grown pale.

  ‘I met a knight,’ I told him.

  ‘A knight?’

  ‘A French knight, judging by his accent. But I saw no one else.’

  ‘And this knight did not attack you?’

  ‘No. But,’ I admitted, ‘he did give me a warning.’

  ‘He sent you away on a different path to the one you wished to take,’ Edward said. It was a statement rather than a question, and I nodded. ‘They do that,’ he said. ‘You did well to heed the warning.’

  ‘And if I had not?’

  ‘Those who do not heed the advice of the apparitions, those who venture where the spirits tell them they should not…’ He broke off and I saw him shiver. ‘Finish your ale,’ he said, accepting the full tankard his wife handed him. ‘Let us talk for a while of other things. And then, when you are done, I shall show you what happens if you ignore the warnings.’

  I was intrigued, but one thing I have learned in the long, lonely, empty years is patience. So I happily talked of my journey, of how things were in London, of rumours that the Queen was ailing. She was, after all, very old, Edward said. I smiled and did not reply.

  When we had finished our ale, Edward led me outside. We made our way through the village. The people seemed to be going about their normal business, the novelty of a woman who had come through the woods already wearing off. I passed my horse, tied up outside the blacksmith’s and drinking water from a wooden trough. I patted him gently on the flank and he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

  We came at last to a house near the edge of the village. A man and woman, about the same age as Edward, came out as we approached. He went to speak to them briefly, asking me to wait a moment. The man and woman looked at me as he spoke. They frowned, but nodded, then stood aside and Edward beckoned for me to join him. Together we went into the house.

  Another woman sat at the table, staring straight ahead. She was much younger, about the same age as I look.

  ‘This is Jane,’ Edward said. ‘Her parents kindly agreed that we could see her.’

  ‘Hello, Jane,’ I said.

  But the young woman did not acknowledge me. She continued to stare into space, as if we were not there.

  ‘Can she hear me?’ I wondered. ‘Can she see me?’

  Edward sighed. ‘I cannot say for certain. I believe she can, though she chooses not to.’

  ‘But why?’ I asked.

  ‘When she was a child,’ Edward explained, ‘she got lost in the woods. As far as we can tell, she ignored the ghosts and ventured where they told her not to. You know what children are like.’

  I nodded. I knew all too well. And now that my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that Jane’s face was relaxed and her eyes wide like a child’s.

  ‘Since then she has been like this,’ Edward went on. ‘Whatever she saw drove her out of her mind. She spends most of her time staring at things that are not there. She rarely speaks, and when she does it is single words. At most a short sentence. She has never spoken about what happened to her or what she saw in the woods.’

  As he spoke, Jane turned and looked at me. Her mouth twitched slightly into the hint of a smile. In that moment, I saw something in her demeanour. I don’t know what it was. Perhaps her expression, perhaps the vague smile. But I saw something that re
minded me of my own daughter Essie. And in that moment, I knew that whatever ghosts, spirits, or apparitions haunted Branscombe Wood I was determined to exorcise them.

  I spent the night in a spare room in Edward and Maria’s house. It was cold and a little damp, and the wind crept through a crack between the window and its frame. But the mattress was softer than the hard ground I had slept on for the past few nights. I woke early as the first light of the day edged into the room. Even before I opened my eyes, I knew it was sunny.

  I lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of the village waking up. People were moving. In the house below, Maria – I assumed – was in the kitchen. I could hear the sheep in a nearby pasture and watched the light move slowly across the floor as the sun moved higher in the sky.

  And all the while, I wondered how best to deal with the ghosts. Edward had told me that different people saw different things. The only constant seemed to be that the apparitions warned against taking certain paths. Whatever had befallen Jane, it had happened because she failed to heed the warnings. Perhaps she was too young to understand them when she ventured into the woods and got lost. Or perhaps she ignored them simply out of the contrariness of youth. But whatever the reason, she had gone where the apparitions forbade her to go, and she had suffered a terrible fate – a shock or a fright – as a result.

  This, then, was the key. In order to unlock the mystery of the ghosts and discover how they might be banished for ever from Branscombe Wood, I needed to ascertain what they were protecting. Or at least, as a first step along that path, I needed to discover where within the wood they wanted to keep sacrosanct.

  Edward was understandably wary as I explained my plan to him over breakfast. It was a simple meal of bread and cheese, but it was more than enough to satisfy me. We talked long after we had finished eating and Maria had cleared away the plates.

  ‘Don’t you see,’ I said when we had been round and round the same arguments several times, ‘this is a chance. It’s a chance not only to discover what happened to poor Jane, but also to regain the woods. If we can banish the ghosts for good, then you won’t have to take a long detour round them to get to market. You won’t have to worry about letting your children play there. It may be,’ I admitted, ‘that after we have learned what or where the apparitions are guarding, we are unable to rid ourselves of them. But at least you will have tried. Surely it is better to try and fail than not to try at all.’